


Venus, Cyprus

by UlsPi



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, M/M, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29263731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UlsPi/pseuds/UlsPi
Summary: Crowley is sent to Cyprus to enjoy himself and relax. He's a brilliant mathematician and a disaster. Aziraphale is there to prove it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 75
Kudos: 36





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sani86](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sani86/gifts).



Help me, o Muse, to tell the tale of one silly vacation on the island where Venus crawled out of the sea like the first organism to have made it out of the jaws of sea beasts and dreaming of a better future. 

Forgive me, the Lord of the universe, Sagan and Spinoza, for addressing a muse. It's just style, ok? 

And here is our brave dyspraxic Achilles with ADHD sauntering through the airport. He's very tired and distracted by the book in his hand (Marilynne Robinson, _Gilead_ , you must know) to know the name of the airport or his final destination. There's someone who has to meet him and drive him to his accomodation, but he's too tired and distracted and it's a vicious circle and the Riemann hypothesis. 

Our neuroqueer (oops, spoiler, or is it?) Achilles saunters and saunters, him and his suitcase, until a kind lady with red hair and a charming smile calls out to him.

"Mr Crowley? Is that you? Of course it is! Your dear mothers warned me about you!"

The lady keeps chattering as she tugs Crowley and his bag along to the car which is white and air-conditioned to the point of being an ice cream machine on four wheels - oh, Crowley would like some ice cream, he would, now what?

Crowley is in his late forties. He's just proved the Goldbach's conjecture and there are numerous number theorists and the like staring at his work right now to prove him wrong or crown him, and Crowley would have been very happy about it, but he's tired because since he was 15, he's been trying to prove it and now he has and he's underwhelmed while his mothers are overwhelming. He closes his eyes. He expected more of himself, truly. 

His mothers are a vicar and a rabba. He grew up in a happy family where a theological dispute was the only acceptable form of small talk which suited Crowley just fine since he tended to start a conversation with a weather question and ended up lecturing someone on Lorenz and chaos theory in the best case scenario. In the worst case scenario the end was a long rant about conspiracy theories. Crowley had to disprove those since he brought one from school one unfortunate day when he was five. The theory was that Santa Claus was an old Jew who stalked little children. He still remembers it because his Jewish mother got very sad and drunk.

This whole Cyprus adventure is sponsored by his mothers, although he can afford it on his own just fine because he's a mischievous boy who's been playing on the stock market just for the fun of it starting on the day he learned about game theory, and that's a lot of time. It doesn't help to disprove conspiracy theories about Jews controlling everything but hey, it gave him enough money to buy a vintage Bentley and sort out the plumbing in his neighbourhood by bribing a few officials at the tender age of twelve. 

His vicar mother thinks he's a demon when she's drunk. And sober too. She loves him anyway because she's a good vicar. 

The red-haired lady keeps talking about Cyprus and this and that, and Crowley tries to hold back his tears. He's had some bad champagne on the plane and the book he's reading is just so good… His suitcase has some black clothes and a few more books about all sorts of things. Somehow one of the books is about how to give the best blowjob. Crowley is offended that his family doubt his skills. He's used bananas, bottles and zucchinis. He's a trained professional who can't find any time to use his cocksucking skills. His standards are not that high, by the way. Just some basic knowledge of number theory! 

Well, perhaps that's why he's been friends with benefits with his colleague Bea for years up until the moment they married that pompous arse from theology! 

The car stops. 

The kind lady looks at Crowley. "There you are, dearie. Oh, you really are that tired! Let me help you check in!"

Fast forward, Crowley is standing in the middle of his hotel room. It has a kitchenette. Crowley's wrist has a toxic orange silicone band which means he can get drunk at any time without the need to remember where his wallet is. 

He changes his clothes then undresses to take a shower. It's a good shower. Crowley uses the setting called _tropical rainstorm_. This place is far off the beaten path so the settings are in Greek. He wonders why he remembers his Greek so well. It's all Greek to him but he entertains himself with some equations he runs in his head.

He walks down to the bar and orders something fruity with rum in it. 

The barboy looks at him with pity. 

There are kids playing in the swimming pool while there's a perfectly comfortable beach right in front of the hotel. Crowley doesn't get it. But he gets another drink. 

The evening goes on. 

Crowley munches on snacks. He doesn't register the taste until someone moans next to him. 

Crowley turns his head.

There's a young man next to him. He's hot. He's soft. He's wearing white and he looks like someone who knows how to enjoy a holiday. He eats another shrimp and moans again. He's young. He doesn't know shit about number theory. Crowley is sure of that. But fuck, the man is young, hot and has blue eyes. He's a hedonist. His belly betrays him and Crowley is drunk enough to want to sink his teeth into the swell of that belly. 

The barboy serves Crowley another drink. 

There's a magician entertaining the wet kids with various tricks. The magician moves well. He's graceful. Crowley somehow doesn't want to use his vast theoretical knowledge of blowjobs on him.

The young blue-eyed man next to Crowley sighs in melancholy. 

"Hey, it's just an illusion," Crowley hears himself say. "I could explain it all to you, if you want."

That's Crowley's flirting. It has never worked before but it must work some day. Maybe this is the day!

"Oh, I do know how it's done, dear boy, I just never manage to do it just as gracefully!" Thus says the angel man next to Crowley. 

Crowley takes a good look at the man. The man is good-looking. He's not athletic and he's not tall, but he's - everything Crowley wants right now. 

Somehow Crowley ends up in his room while the man, Aziraphale, shows Crowley magic tricks. 

Aziraphale is hopelessly bad but Crowley cheers him on and applauds all the same because that pretty face has to stay content. Fuck, does Crowley feel old and useless!

They share some whiskey from the fridge - tiny bottles that send Crowley into a long rant about - who was it? Kepler. Kepler and volume. Aziraphale gazes at Crowley as if he wanted Crowley to spend the night so naturally Crowley suggests a walk. 

Crowley isn't used to the southern kind of night, when it's suddenly dark, so dark no electricity dares compete. There are cypresses, because it's Cyprus. 

Aziraphale talks about his magic tricks and suchlike. He's so pretty - even in the dark. He studies - ehm - theology? English? Something like that. He's the kind of a person who needs words for poetry. Were Crowley a bit younger, he'd scrunch his nose, but now he's just gazing at his companion. 

It's very hot too.

So is Aziraphale. Terrible. Wonderful. 

Crowley needs to sleep. 

"I need to sleep," he says. 

Aziraphale seems sad and disappointed. 

"Come on, angel, I'm an old man!" 

"You're not, my dear. Well… I suppose, I… Goodnight, Crowley!"

"We could see each other tomorrow!" Crowley proclaims. He's ridiculous. He shouldn't be like that. 

"Oh really?" Aziraphale is melting the night away, that's how pleased he is. He's practically glowing with it. 

"Sure." 

Crowley is a doctor; he's proved Goldbach's conjecture. He's good. He's a slut for a young theologist. What would his mothers say?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Musical!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own anything. The music belongs to Muse, Imagine Dragons and Queen and Duke Ellington

Crowley wakes up. 

For most people it means a whole lot of easy things but for Crowley it means putting on  _ Survival  _ by Muse. 

Oh! Muse!

He doesn't open his eyes just yet, his phone has been trained to take care of things for him at this point. 

Since Crowley was a little tiny boy he's been thinking that things - rhyme. 

Crowley discovered that things rhyme, be they words or movements or numbers. Crowley was mesmerised by the movements of the great sportspeople. Because they rhymed. 

Crowley, he didn't rhyme. Crowley couldn't walk to the bathroom without colliding with a few walls. So his mothers made a line for him and he had to keep to that line. That's why he's getting up right now holding a pen (golden) and draws a line from his bed to the bathroom. 

_ Race _

_ Life's race _

And Crowley's gonna win  _ everything _ . 

He returns to his bed and he makes his way to the bathroom walking as if on a rope. One foot in front of the other. It takes some effort. Not enough for Goldbach's conjecture, but enough to make Crowley fully awake. The music helps, though. 

_ And I'm gonna win _

_ Yes I'm gonna win _

_ And I'll light the fuse _

_ And I'll never lose _

He makes it to the bathroom without stepping out of the line. 

_ It's alright _

_ It's all good _

He wants a cigarette.  _ If you smoke, make it matter!  _ That's what his rabba mom has always said. 

So Crowley takes out his smoking kit and rolls a cigarette. His hands shake a bit, his hands don't obey him fully. It doesn't mean a thing, because he's got that swing. 

He changes the music. 

_ Don't mean a thing, if it ain't got that swing _

_ Doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah _

_ It don't mean a thing, all you got to do is sing _

_ Doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah, doo-ah _

Crowley's task is to roll a cigarette and take a shower without wetting it.

_ You're perfect, my son. You've got a different swing, that's all. _

His big fat beautiful vicar mom is standing behind him every morning, wearing the silliest bathrobe ever, holding his arms and dancing with him, because when he dances, his body does what he wants it to do. 

_ Don't mean a thing, if it ain't got that swing _

Crowley takes a shower. Smoking hot. He's hot, his cigarette is hot, the water is hot. There's some eternal saxophone playing along. 

He inhales. He keeps his cigarette dry. The water runs down his hair and his face and his body. 

_ Hey Joseph,  _ his rabbinical mother calls. She's standing behind him, angry white hair, angry posture, clear blue eyes. 

_ First things first _

_ I'ma say all the words inside my head _

_ I'm fired up and tired of the way that things have been, oh-ooh _

_ The way that things have been, oh-ooh _

She's angry, she's righteous, she's merciful. She cried and yelled at the headmaster and at the social worker. She yelled at everyone. She was angry with everyone. She knows Mishna by heart. She speaks Hebrew in her sleep. And she's standing behind Crowley, behind her Joseph. They are wearing old Queen shirts and striped pyjama pants. It might be a statement and it might just be pyjama pants. 

_ Pain! _

_ You made me a, you made me a believer, believer _

_ Pain! _

_ You break me down and build me up, believer, believer _

_ Pain! _

_ Oh, let the bullets fly, oh, let them rain _

_ My life, my love, my drive, it came from... _

_ Pain! _

She's looking at Crowley right now, she's so angry, she's so angry, she loves him so much. He can't rhyme the way the people in sports do. He can't rhyme like Fred Astaire. He can't rhyme like everyone else. He can make the numbers rhyme all the same, because they all fucking rhyme. They rhyme and there are primes. No one rules the primes but Crowley wants to. His vicar mom smiles and shakes her head. His rabbinical mother smiles and nods. 

He's made it out of the shower with his cigarette still burning, so he blows out a cloud of smoke at his reflection. 

He has copper hair and a few galaxies worth of freckles. He's not exactly young and he thinks about his mothers. He's not what he should be, perhaps, but it feels right, so it is right. Nothing else matters. 

He brushes his teeth and he shaves. It takes a lot of effort, it takes a lot of his time. For the first time in his life he feels like he's earned it. He's proved Goldbach's conjecture, he's brilliant. He's earned his place among those who don't need their mothers and some inspiring music to walk to the bathroom and brush their teeth and shave. 

Crowley knows he doesn't need to earn his place but he still prefers to do it, just in case. 

He changes the music again and he mimics playing the piano until he finds a roll up piano keyboard in his suitcase while looking for a t-shirt. 

Crowley sits down on his bed, the roll up keyboard across his knees. He's so loved. He'd forgotten. 

He starts playing  _ Love of my life _ . It hurts being an adult, he thinks. He was lucky enough to be safe and sound back at home and then in Cambridge. He's been so lucky, and his moms bought him a vacation. His mamas taught him about the numbers and poetry and music. He's been given the right to look into a camera, like Feynman, and smile like the handsomest man in the world and thank his moms. 

If his proof gets the recognition it deserves, then he'll have numerous opportunities to thank his moms. He knows he'll use them.

He also knows that if he gets dressed and makes it to the dining room or whatever it's called, he might meet Aziraphale. It shouldn't feel like one of his professional triumphs, but it does feel so. 

Aziraphale is eating primly and properly, lest one fails to notice an occasional wiggle when he finds the food particularly delicious. Crowley doesn't care that much about the food, but it warms his eyes to see Aziraphale eating. He readjusts his sunglasses, since he's not particularly ready to reveal his coloboma and a dead eye. He feels naked without his shades and the memory of Aziraphale making no comment about them the previous night warms his heart too. Makes him all taut and trembling in the wind. 

He's about to calculate his trajectory towards Aziraphale when the younger man raises his bright, bright eyes and they - twinkle! They land in Crowley and twinkle. 

"My dear boy! Good morning! So good to see you!" He's brighter than the sun and somehow the sun is happy to see Crowley, so Crowley forgets about his trajectory building and walks into a couple of tables without having a single excuse in the form of having consumed some alcohol. 

"Are you quite alright?" Aziraphale looks concerned. It's a bad look on him, it dims him, so Crowley -

"Ngk. I'm fine. I have dyspraxia."

"Oh, you got me worried there! What if you were hungover and all alone!" Aziraphale is fussing about him, talks without a pause, there's a method to his speech too, and before long Crowley trusts Aziraphale with the knowledge of the way he takes his coffee.

Then Crowley is cradling a cup nee bucket of coffee while Aziraphale is trying to persuade him to eat just one bite of a pastry and some fruit. Crowley finds himself with a mouthful of food.

"There you go, dear fellow, there you go. You really are too skinny for your own good. And I might be too soft. We have to find a balance, don't we?"

"You're perfect," Crowley blurts out. Aziraphale blushes. It covers his cheeks in tender shades of pink. 

"Flatterer." But Aziraphale smiles like a bastard when he says it. Crowley wants to sit by his side on the beach and read. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The musical is back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything belongs to Lady Gaga, long may she live; One Republic; and Stevie Wonder who sees better than anyone; and Four Tops who somehow don't have four bottoms.

It's a small simple task. Apply the sunscreen because the gingers are to be ravished by fire. Crowley is doing just that. He's donned his swimming shorts with gothic ducks bleeding or crying mascara. It's a gift from his mothers. His vicar mom, Geraldine, had a few bad-never-speak-like-that words about it, but his rabba momma, Ela, said that it only goes to show that Jews are too fancy to bleed blood, and there's not enough of it left after two millennia of Christian hegemony… It must have been some bedroom talk making its way into Crowley's life just like that because Crowley is sure there was some furious snogging after that. 

Anyway, arms, chest, somehow back, definitely shoulders. _Starmap, reach out farther, yeah, that body of yours is capable of countless miracles._

Crowley is reaching out very far. He's got a sponge on a stick doing it for him. It's his brain that's capable of countless miracles at the expense of his ability to ride a fucking bicycle. 

He's all skin and bones, a starmap of freckles, of a supernova of red hair upon his head. 

_And we'll start a fire and we'll shut it down_

He raises his eyes to the bathroom mirror. Blue is the colour of the universe's first supernova, like Aziraphale's eyes.

_And we'll start a fire and we'll shut it down_

_Till the love runs out_

He sees his moms behind him - one big fat vicar with a heart of gold and one stick-thin angry rabba with a will of steel dancing behind him during his first shave.

_But momma raised me good_

_Momma raised me right_

_Momma said "Do what you want,_

_Say prayers at night!"_

And Crowley is saying them. He says them every night and every morning. 

_But I don't believe in the Almighty!_

_Ben'i, your favourite Sagan said it's impossible to prove that Gd does or doesn't exist!_

_And you ignore what your favourite Hawking said!_

_So, I'm going to pray in the name of Sagan and Hawking! And neither of them would want that!_

_So, you say, Lord of Sagan and Hawking and Maxwell and Maimonides…_

Crowley looks at them in the mirror. They are older now, sadder and more relaxed. They couldn't be vicars, rabbis or spouses just some years ago, but they were, regardless.

_No man tells you what to do, Joseph. No human tells you what to do. You're our Joseph. They'll throw into a pit and sell you into Egypt, but you'll rise again, my gay darling, you'll rise again and you'll prove them wrong…_

_And Leibniz and Newton were toxic and Leibniz had Jesuit sympathies!_

_And they were both antisemites!_

Their voices go together in his head even if or maybe because they always argue and never agree and love each other. Theirs is the ultimate rhyme, the one invisible to the rest of the world. 

Crowley's weekends have always been difficult - Shabbat then Sunday, lunches, cooking, finger foods. It was too hard for him, so he hid with some maths. 

His algebra is like _Stairway to Heaven_ , like Bowie's Berlin trilogy, like two rivers furiously snogging in the rain, because if it's romantic to snog in the rain, then two lesbians deserve it more than anyone else.

_Why Goldbach's conjecture?_

_Because it's beautiful!_

_But so is the Riemann hypothesis!_

They don't understand either well, but they made sure he strove and sought and never yielded. If he's right, he's a millionaire, although he's one just the same. 

_I mean, that Riemann thingie, it's all hot right now. I read a book!!!_

_Mom, you always read a book!_

_It's just that we read about it more, that's all. Ela, shut up!_

There's no force in the universe to make rabba Ela shut up. She's too angry about too many things. And she's gentler than a chick, she's ferocious, she's so fiercely intelligent. Geraldine is too, but she's more about unconditional love and acceptance. The only unconditional thing in Ela's life is Crowley, and Crowley is currently failing at sunscreen. He's failed at sanskrit before as well. He's good at French out of sheer spite. 

He looks at himself in the mirror again. He's paler and whiter than usual, with the amount of the sunscreen he's put on himself.

The music keeps going in his head and at the tips of his fingers. Several songs at once. 

Then one emerges and he sees his moms again. 

_Now if you feel that you can't go on_

_Because all of your hope is gone_

_And your life is filled with much confusion_

_Until happiness is just an illusion_

_And your world around is crumblin' down_

_Darling, reach out, come on son, reach on out for me_

_Reach out, reach out for me_

_I'll be there, with a love that will shelter you_

_I'll be there, with a love that will see you through_

He smiles at his reflection again as the pain sets in. He fell off a tree. His mothers argued but let him climb it. He fell. He hurt his back. He could climb that tree, he could, but his body never listened to him. 

Ela held his hand and prayed and demanded he prayed too. 

_Lord of the universe, of Sagan, Spinoza and Feynman, Lord of Newton and Leibniz, Lord of calculus, you never listened to me, your world never obeyed, but you know what? I defy you, I'm better. Go fuck yourself. My mother is crying and I'm her Joseph, so I'm about to fucking rise and defy you all over again and you're going to love it!_

They cried, his mothers, they cried and danced to Stevie Wonder as they guided him through recovery. 

_Just as all that's born is new_

_You know what I say is true_

_That I'll be loving you always_

_Always_

_(Until the ocean covers every mountain high)_

_Always_

_(Until the dolphin flies and parrots live at sea)_

_Always_

_(Until we dream of life and life becomes a dream)_

Crowley makes his way down to the beach. He has a couple of books with him. Aziraphale has already secured the chaise lounges for them. 

He smiles at Crowley. Crowley is looking at him. It both hurts and makes him proud that he's defied heaven and hell to get down here. 

His mouth is stupid and is guiding him, for fuck's sake, so he tells Aziraphale everything, and that young angel smiles at him and grabs Crowley's hand. 

"I'm so proud of you, darling. I wouldn't want to spend any time with anyone less than a hero, and to me you're Achilles. I'm afraid I want to be your tortoise."

Crowley sits next to him and just stares at him. 

"Fancy a swim? Your shoulders look promising." Aziraphale smiles appraisingly. 

"Physiotherapy," Crowley replies. 

"Doesn't matter. I can't swim and you can hold me in the water."

"I can hold you outside just as well," Crowley shrugs. Ok, he might be showing off his shoulders a bit, but he still scoops Aziraphale up and carries him into the water. If Aziraphale looks at him like a swooning maiden, all the better.

"I proved Goldbach's conjecture," Crowley whispers to him out of nowhere.

"My brother thinks I love Handel, but I'm a slut for Lady Gaga," Aziraphale whispers back. If they're sharing secrets.

"Handel was a naughty bugger," Crowley replies. He's in the water so Aziraphale is a lot less heavy but Crowley misses the weight. Curious.

"That's what I've been telling him! He doesn't listen! Love Handel - love Gaga." Aziraphale makes helpless movements of a newborn puppy. And then he yells, "Oh-oh-oh, caught in a bad romance!"

Crowley almost leaves him in the mercy of a few fishes before he can gather his wit back, but when he does, he laughs. Aziraphale is clinging to him, arms and legs, and he's - whispering. Seductively.

_I want you drama, the touch of your hand_

_I want your leather-studded kiss in the sand_

_I want your love_

_Love love love I want your love._

Crowley can be a bastard too, so he drops Aziraphale into the sea, singing.

_I want your horror, I want your design_

_'cause you're a criminal as long as you're mine_

Aziraphale laughs at him and clings at him again. 

"I won't let you drown," Crowley promises. 

"You're more tender and lovely than an ABBA song, Crowley."

Aziraphale kisses his temple and Crowley bluescreens for a moment there. 

They still spend the rest of the time before noon reading. They are an old married couple who sing Lady Gaga to each other over the time and space and disability. As far as Crowley is concerned, Goldbach's conjecture is shit, compared to this. It might be really good shit, but it's still shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does it show that the real story is about Crowley's moms? Yes, one of them is Dawn French and the other is Frances McDormand, but like, a rabbi.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: nausea. Very short chapter. I'm very sorry.

Call it the principle of uncertainty, if you will. This is definitely what Crowley is calling his sudden Victorian malady of being - uncertain. Oh, I'm about to trick and tease you again, for it's not about love or doubt. It's merely about the fact that a few days of  _ swimming  _ with Aziraphale has made Crowley - uh, a bit nauseous. He's very ashamed of it and of the uncertainty about where up and down are. They must be somewhere but Crowley's compass has just survived some waves and one wiggly angel.

They are in Crowley's bed, face to face. Aziraphale looks troubled and sorry. Crowley can't stand it, but he can't do anything because every move makes him more nauseous.

"Talk to me, angel," Crowley asks. 

"Whatever it is I can tell you, my dear?"

"That you have this old man who's gone seasick while swimming!"

"We weren't swimming!" Aziraphale giggled. "We were heavily petting each other under the pretext of you teaching me to swim."

"Didn't teach you shit," Crowley grumbles. "Talk to me."

"Alright… Well, as you know I studied theology. There might be an element of spite in it, you see, because I don't really agree with Dawkins. I prefer Stephen Jay Gould. Lynn Margulis. You know."

"I do," Crowley says. He tries to nod. He isn't feeling so well. "I don't like Glenn Gould. Stephen Jay Gould I do like. Yes. Theology."

"Yes. I accidentally followed my older brother into it, but he had to work hard for his tenure and I got one without much trouble." Aziraphale smiles. "I'm just a very good reader and a brilliant scholar."

"And I proved Goldbach's conjecture."

"Yes, dear boy, you told me. I'm very proud of you." Aziraphale leans in to kiss Crowley's forehead. "You're so clever. You're so clever and so pretty, Crowley," Aziraphale says sincerely. 

"And you're a proper Renaissance man, angel. Biology. Maths… you know maths, right? Tenure… Theology…"

"Oh my darling, you should rest."

"If I rest, you'll go."

"I won't go, Crowley. I won't. It's very hard to part from you every evening. I should be more of a slut and seduce you…"

"Not now, angel."

"Not now, darling."

"Angels shouldn't ask questions, should they? And you do…"

"I'm a bad angel. I flirt with a pretty mathematician on vacation."

"Happens to the best of us… I'd like to be young and protect you. Do  _ anything  _ for you. And instead I'm just… like that."

"You're my beautiful devil, my tireless scientist… I'd be a bad angel indeed if I didn't want one of you… I haven't met anyone like you."

"You silver tongued angel… why am I so bad?"

"You're not, darling. You're just… nauseous. It happens. There will be no romantic boat trips, that's all. I'm not very fond of water, to be honest."

"Well, angel, water isn't fond of me either."

"So why do you keep chasing it, Crowley? Why won't you take your chances on me?" Aziraphale runs his fingers through Crowley's hair. It's such a pretty shade of red, copper or chestnut - it's all up to the light, and there's preciously little of it in the room. "If I'm to be an angel, darling, then I'd rather be your angel…" Aziraphale whispers it into Crowley's sleepy eyes. 

***

Call it the principle of uncertainty, if you will, but the rest of their vacation is terrible. They still spend it together. It's awful. And wonderful. 

And yes, yes, they do get married eventually. 

Aziraphale even leaves his tenure because Crowley makes enough for them both and Aziraphale loves reading more than anything… Not more than Crowley, of course. They did emerge from the waters on Cyprus, nauseous or swimming really badly. It doesn't make them any less divine. They are the deities of love anyway, in their own mythology, on their own little island. 

If you ask them, they invented love. They won't ever tell you how they did it. Rest assured, it was a very naughty invention. 

They adopted a girl. Venus. 


End file.
